Stone Circle every little lie in this world comes from dividing

There’s no sign of the kill, he realizes a second after speaking. Vermouth raises an eyebrow, impressed. He waits for her to answer, though she doesn’t speak. She merely noses at him again, her tongue swiping over his lower lip as if she’s a hungry pup.

“You don’t talk,” surmises Vermouth, lips pursing as he hums in contemplation.

While there’s something very puerile about her behavior, particularly her submission, he studies her closely for a moment. She looks fully mature to him. His eyes trace over the bright—scar?—on her face. He notes the two different colors of her lowered eyes. She’s very svart, marking aside.

That thought breeds another: is this where Leonore had come from? He sniffs again, trying to detect any trace of her scent, but he doesn’t catch it. He makes another thoughtful noise, then goes very still as he deliberates. One minute passes. Then another.

He glances at the she-wolf—Vixen, he decides, being partial to names beginning with that particular letter, and because you are what you eat—and motions at her. Vermouth then strides straight into the territory, ears up and tail arched as he asserts himself over this ghost town.